On the Clock
by Kitarin
Summary: Roger convinces Mark to take a little "break" from his horrible part-time job - while still on the clock. Roger/Mark


Author's NotesWritten literally on the clock as a vague parody of my awful summer job - which I quit the next day. Mostly fluffy smut.  
Disclaimer: All thanks to Jonathan Larson. My girlfriend, roommate and I were in a terribly car wreck two weeks before I wrote this (we spun and flipped in mid-air, totaled the car and ought to be dead) and the song that was playing as it happened was Santa Fe. I truly believe Jonathan was watching over us.

"I _hate_ this shithole."

Mark Cohen's voice came out in a sharp hiss as he leaned across ther glass counter to address his best friend.

"That's a little harsh, coming from you," Roger Davis replied, a glint of sympathy in his green eyes despite the teasing tone of his voice.

"_Nothing ever works right_!" The blond filmmaker was so agitated that he was literally twitching, but he got no further in his explanation.

"Sir? Sir? Siiiir!" Mark trudged across the store to climb a ladder to unhook some hideously awful souvenir sign plastered with gaudy pictures of Times Square for a redhead in an I heart NY t-shirt while her two twin boys ran circles around the ladder. This event was followed by retrieving some godawful shot glasses from the back room, which was followed by ringing up 27 bumper stickers...

Roger leaned against the counter watching Mark run in circles for a good half hour before the store was miraculously momentarily empty. "I keep telling you to quit."

"I need the money to get the part to fix my camera. I've told you that," Mark muttered irritably as he refolded a stack of t-shirts emblazoned with the black and yellow taxi cab checker. "But the owner is a complete fucking dumbass who was in here for two hours earlier trying to 'help out' - but let me tell you, she can't even work the computer mouse and then she managed to knock over the scanner which yanked out the wire to the keyboard and then--"

Mark's rant was cut short when Roger reached across the counter, grabbed the end of his scarf and pulled him close to plant a gentle kiss on his lips.

"ROGER! I'm. At. Work!" The protest was there in words, but Mark's expression had softened to somewhere between a grimace and a smile.

"I think it's time for a dinner break," the singer answered casually, adding a wink.

"Just because you don't have rehearsal tonight - and besides, my coworker called out sick. I don't get any breaks today becuase there's no one to cover - what are you doing?"

Roger had started to meander across the kvetchy tourist trap until he reached the door, where he just as casually flipped the "Open" sign to "Closed", after which he flipped the lock and then the light switch beside it. Big Apple Bites went dark except for the lights behind the register. "How big's that storage room?"

Mark raised an eyebrow, one hand fiddling with the end of his scarf as he watched Roger cross the now-shadowed room. "Claustrophobic," he pouted slightly as he came around from behind the counter. Roger eyed him with what Mark would have to define as a predatory look and placed one hand on the filmmaker's chest, driving him backwards until he was against the door to the storage room.

"Haven't you always wanted to have sex and get paid for it?"

"I can't say the thought has ever crossed my mind." Those were the last words Mark had time to utter before Roger's mouth was against his, his hands cradling Mark's face as the blond fumbled with the doorknob behind his back. Bottom lip, top lip, corner - Roger's tongue was teasing Mark impatiently as he finally got the door open and they stumbled backwards.

As the door clicked shut behind them, Mark's hands slipped up, fingers tangling in Roger's hair as he opened his mouth. Roger ran his tongue across Mark's bottom lip again, biting softly before he pressed in, savoring the sweetness. "You were eating Junior Mints again," he snickered softly.

"Bite me," Mark muttered with a smirk. The songwriter was only too happy to oblige, nipping his way down Mark's neck until he drew an earlobe in and sucked, grinning when it elicited a gasp from the filmaker.

"I want you," Roger hissed in his ear, his hands slipping under Mark's sweater, trailing over bare skin before grabbing hold and pulling it sharply over his head. He flung it onto a stack of decidedly garish plush poodles wearing more of the I Heart NY t-shirts before shoving Mark up against the door. He ducked his head down to catch a nipple between his teeth and grinned again when Mark moaned softly.

This was wrong, Mark's thoughts raced. It was oh so utterly naughty and daring and what if someone noticed the store was closed midday and called the owner and Roger was a bad, bad influence... and yet... the satisfaction of one-upping the assholes whio'd been shitting on him for the past month was such a fucking turn-on. "Fuck. Me. Roger," Mark managed to stutter before he finally pushed the brunette off of him.

"Working on that," Roger grinned impishly, his hands already reaching for the button of Mark's jeans. "But you seem to be hindering my progress - God only knows why."

"I had a momentary attack of morality," Mark explained, one hand reaching out to grab the buckle of Roger's studded leather belt. "But now my conscience appears to have also taken a brief vacation." He tugged the belt to drag Roger's hips crashing against his, reveling in the sharp intake of breath from the other before crushing their mouths together again. Lips and tongues and hands battled until Roger finally succeeded in unzipping Mark's pants. He let his best friend pull the black Queen t-shirt over his head before flipping the blond around.

Mark's hands splayed against the cold door as he heard Roger unzip his own jeans. Warm hands ran up and down his back several times before one slipped around front to stroke him. "I could torture you."

"You could," Mark mumbled. His glasses were crooked and the cold door was making his nipples painfully hard. "But then I'd have to kill you."

Roger laughed softly, then kissed a line from Mark's shoulder up his neck until he found a favorite biting place. His hands slid to Mark's hips and he entered him, achingly slow. "Tell me you want me," he whispered in the blond's ear as a shudder ran through him. "Tell me you want me to fuck you."

The filmaker whimpered a little, turning his head until his blue eyes met Roger's in the darkness and they shared another searing kiss. He knew how much Roger loved it when he gave in and talked dirty back to him. "I want you to fuck me so badly that I can feel it in the tips of every finger and every toe."

"Mark..." The name was hardly more than a whisper as Roger withdrew and plunged in again, driving their rhythm harder and faster as his hand slipped around again to cup Mark, stroking him in time with every thrust.

Mark let his head fall forward until it met the door, moaning Roger's name repeatedly, feeling the sweat run down into the small of his back. Every nerve sparked in him like fire until he finally let go, coming into Roger's hand and sending the songwriter into convulsions of his own. They melted simultaneously to the floor and Roger gathered Mark into his arms, showing his face with kisses.

"Love you..." Mark murmured, letting go of a deep sigh. The frustrations of work seemed so very far away.

"Love you too," Roger murmured, letting his head fall onto Mark's shoulder. "But there's one thing I want to know?"

"What's that?" Mark nudged Roger until the songwriter met his eyes.

"Have I convinced you to close up early and come home?"

Mark grinned, slapping at Roger playfully. "I could be... persuaded."


End file.
